I could hear Insufficiency flee from me at The Thinkers Hour, when sleep is halted and, on occasion the rooster is already cawing at the movements of Transiency.

I rise higher, scribing longer, recounting our Divinity, the boundlessness of Love, and the hues that the Sun dusts over cemeteries and trains alike.

It is then, as matter scaling the skyling, that decidedly I sink into Rapid Ply Healing.